


Feats of Prestidigitation

by theycallmeDernhelm (onyourleft084)



Series: and after all this time/i’m still into you [40]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: An ode to White Suit Crowley, Anal Sex, Car Sex, Clothed Sex, Hand Job, Human AU, M/M, Magic Tricks, Magician!Aziraphale, Meet Cute with Hot Sex Shortly Thereafter, Not-so-subtle Seduction, Rough Sex, Shower Sex, WSC Supremacy, Waiter!Crowley, Warlock’s birthday party, White Suit Crowley and White Suit Crowley Thirst, all the jobs really, blowjob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-14 05:26:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29040852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onyourleft084/pseuds/theycallmeDernhelm
Summary: “Something flared up deep inside of Aziraphale, a need that he had ignored for so long for fear of being entirely, utterly consumed by it. He was here to do magic for the party, yes, but at that moment he resolved to take on another mission: to make this mysterious, magnificent Mr. Crowley his.And so it began.”The Amazing Mr. Fell is hired to perform at the birthday party of the son of the American ambassador— details which seem irrelevant once he meets the stunning head of catering services, Mr. Crowley.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: and after all this time/i’m still into you [40]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1515578
Comments: 29
Kudos: 195





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My contribution to the growing tapestry of specifically elegant sin that is the Good Omens fandom’s thirst for White Suit Crowley. Special thanks to my betas [MrsCaulfield](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsCaulfield/pseuds/MrsCaulfield) who screamed encouragement and lives in the house right across from me in Crowley Thirst Hell (hey neighbour xoxo), and [animeangelriku](https://archiveofourown.org/users/animeangelriku/pseuds/animeangelriku) for padding out what would have been a quick and dirty PWP with suggestions on how to make it the work of flirtatious blasphemy you see before you. Thanks guys! ❤️
> 
> And now, on with the show.

A gig like this didn’t normally come Aziraphale’s way. He knew it was important when the email request came through with a fancy, official-looking header. US Embassy, Office of Thaddeus Dowling, Ambassador. Subject line: Children’s Party Entertainment.

He wasn’t the only independent contractor hired for the event. When Aziraphale drove up to the Dowling Estate— by far the largest private residential building he had ever seen in fifteen years of his career— he found the parking area almost full with catering trucks. The caterers had set up the party in a little white tent, with streamers and balloons and an exquisite chocolate fountain. That looked good, Aziraphale mused. He remembered the simple birthdays he’d had as a child, and the ones he was often hired to perform at. Warlock was certainly a privileged young lad. Serving-staff scurried about, dressed almost too impeccably for a child’s birthday party, carrying trays of sweet and savoury things that Aziraphale deemed far too fancy for kids anyway. He ignored the whiff of fresh sausage rolls being carried toward the party and did a last minute inventory of everything. Birds, check. Rabbit, check. Box of tricks, check. Then he happened to glance into the windshield of a large antique car.

"Oh!" Aziraphale exclaimed out loud. "The moustache! I forgot all about the moustache!"

It was all right— there was still time. Aziraphale fished around in his pocket for the stick of eyeliner he’d bought from a drugstore on the way to the party. The moustache was not a necessary thing, of course, but Aziraphale wanted everything to be just so and just right and anyway, the moustache made him look the part. He tried to draw two distinct swirls on either side of his philtrum, but they all turned out crooked. And that wouldn’t do. It simply  _ wouldn’t _ do.

"Oi."

Aziraphale looked up, startled. Thankfully the person at his elbow was not one of the Dowling parents or their scrutinising secret service staff, only the head waiter.  _ I’m not in trouble,  _ Aziraphale thought, relieved, but another look at the waiter made him think again.  _ Oh, damn. I am in trouble. _

See, the man standing before him was simply the most breathtaking person Aziraphale had ever been lucky enough to lay eyes on. Tall, yes, and thin— not thin, but lean, almost slender. Narrow hips and waist, long legs that seemed to go on for days. He had amazing cheekbones and a slightly pouted lower lip, arguably the only soft-looking thing about him, and he had flaming red hair. Aziraphale had never seen that colour hair on anyone in real life. It stuck up in an arrogant shark-fin that Aziraphale was certain would make him the most noticeable person in the room, and he found himself almost bereft at the fact that he could not see this gorgeous creature’s eyes. They were concealed by a pair of expensive-looking sunglasses, which actually added to his mysterious allure. Aziraphale was certain he had been staring with his jaw hanging just slightly open.

"Can I help you?" The waiter asked, cocking an eyebrow. Aziraphale was surprised at the way this elicited a curl of heat deep in his gut. 

"I’m sorry— terribly sorry," Aziraphale stammered. "I was just— putting on a few finishing touches—" he glanced at the windshield, making the connection between this stunning man and the equally stunning antique Bentley that he was using so ungraciously as a mirror. "Is this your car?"

"Yep," said the waiter in a curt tone.

"I’m sorry. I just needed— I have—"

The waiter tutted, glancing at Aziraphale’s weak attempts at drawing the moustache. "Doesn’t look so good."

"I’m trying my best," Aziraphale said, pained.

To his surprise, the waiter extended a hand and fluttered his fingers as if to say,  _ Here _ . "Let me. According to the itinerary, you’re up in thirty minutes." He glanced at his watch, which Aziraphale noted was a clunky and overcomplicated timepiece. "Make that twenty-five."

"Oh— oh thank you," Aziraphale stammered, handing over his eyeliner pencil and leaving his dignity in this stranger’s hands. "It’s been bothering me."

"Uh-huh." The waiter poised the pencil between long, elegant fingers. "Hold still."

Aziraphale held still. He held very, very still.

The waiter stood close, the towering height of him seeming to crowd Aziraphale on all sides. He put a hand on his bicep to keep him steady, sending a flash of heat up Aziraphale’s arm.  _ Oh, dear God. _ He forced himself to look into the waiter’s dark glasses, trying to see the eyes behind the lenses. He couldn’t help the sound he made when the waiter moved his hand from his arm to underneath Aziraphale’s jaw.

"Sorry," he said, in a low voice that made Aziraphale’s blood turn to Greek fire. His thumb tilted Aziraphale’s face up with a devastating gentleness, like they’d known each other all their lives. Aziraphale’s eyelids fluttered.  _ So close. _ Cologne, fresh linen tablecloths, Belgian chocolate. Did this man taste the way he smelled?

"We had bets to see who the Dowlings would book for the party, y’know," the waiter said conversationally. "Big money said Criss Angel, but not even the Dowlings have enough pull to get him out of retirement and jet him all the way here."

Aziraphale chuckled, or as much as he could chuckle while having his moustache done. "I hope I’m not such a disappointment, then."

"Meh. I didn’t lose anything. Put my money on local talent— the Ambassador’s a bit of a cheapskate. No offence," he added. "Anyway, you can be Criss Angel today if you want. Kids won’t know any better. All done, now."

Aziraphale gathered himself, a glass window on the verge of collapse. He checked himself in the windshield. The moustache was perfect.

"I," he said, and cleared his throat. "That looks lovely. You did a great job." My dear, he almost added, then bit the word down.

The waiter shrugged. "It’s nothing." He looked Aziraphale up and down. "Better get out there."

"Yes," Aziraphale said, straightening his bow tie. "I believe I should. Thank you, mister—"

"Crowley," said the waiter smoothly. "Good luck....Mr. Angel."

The parting words were accompanied by a smirk that Aziraphale could not see as anything other than flirtatious. He remained almost dumbfounded as Crowley left to order around the rest of his employees. And oh, how he  _ left _ . His hips did a thing, swaying from side to side as he walked like a tease, and most aggravatingly of all, Aziraphale was certain it was natural. That was just how Crowley walked. That was just how Crowley  _ was _ .

Something flared up deep inside of Aziraphale, a need that he had ignored for so long for fear of being entirely, utterly consumed by it. He was here to do magic for the party, yes, but at that moment he resolved to take on another mission: to make this mysterious, magnificent Mr. Crowley  _ his _ .

And so it began.

As far as audiences went, Warlock and his friends were a tough crowd. It took all of Aziraphale’s energy to keep them engaged, drawing out each trick with increasing suspense. Warlock seemed bored by the whole thing, but he wasn’t the only one Aziraphale was trying to impress.

Mr. Crowley was, even from this distance, an attractive sight. Aziraphale appreciated that he had made his own touches to his uniform. He had a shorter hem on the jacket, cropping it higher up on his torso. A wide cummerbund that drew attention to the slenderness of his waist. And trousers— not wide and pleated and easy for moving around in like the other waiters, but dreadfully, criminally tight, hugging the shapely legs that seemed to go on for miles. He was whip-lean, breathtakingly striking, and  _ he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, _ which only made Aziraphale more secure in his pursuit. Aziraphale was rewarded by the smiles that lifted the waiter’s handsome features whenever he did a flourish or a particularly exciting reveal. It made him feel like he wasn’t doing such a bad job.

And Crowley, too, seemed to be showing off in his own way. When he had to do his job, he did it with such breathtaking finesse that it almost made Aziraphale fumble. Crowley was one of the older waiters, nearly Aziraphale’s age himself, and seemed to be respected to the point of being feared by his subordinates. He was nimble, weaving between tables with ease even while laden with bowls of ice cream, and Aziraphale caught a flash of kindness when he bent low to listen closely to a shy little girl asking for a milkshake. But always, in between tasks, Crowley made a point to watch Aziraphale.

"Now, you see my old top hat? Well, you also see that there is nothing inside my perfectly normal top hat such as any of you might wear on a trip to the confectioners. But wait," exclaimed Aziraphale, "What’s this? Could it be, our old furry friend, Harry the Rabbit!"

It didn’t surprise Aziraphale that he received no reaction from the audience, aside from a few cringing groans. It did surprise him, however, that Crowley suddenly burst into applause.

"Bravo!" He cried. "Good show!"

It was not a genuine reaction, but it wasn’t sarcastic either. It was entirely supportive.

Warmth flooded Aziraphale’s chest.  _ Oh, you’re gonna get it now. _

It felt silly, to want someone he had just met so much. But every minute just standing within Crowley’s general proximity only increased Aziraphale’s yearning. What started out as a crush had, in a matter of moments, turned into a desire so passionate that Aziraphale, too, was eager to be done with the show. Convinced that nothing would interest the children further, Aziraphale resigned himself to twisting balloons. This, at least, entertained the kids a little, as they lined up to challenge Aziraphale with increasingly complicated balloon figures.

Crowley was watching, and maybe it was Aziraphale’s imagination but there was a hungry look about him too. Aziraphale took a chance. He made sure Crowley was watching him inflate another long balloon, pumping it to its full length. Then, shifting himself just slightly to face the waiter, he stroked the underside of the balloon slowly and deliberately, holding Crowley’s gaze intently.

That broke him. Crowley's eyebrows quirked in surprise, and he made a small gasp. Aziraphale smiled to himself, catching the blush that spread quickly over Crowley’s impeccable cheekbones and lovely long neck.

Luckily, nobody else caught onto that suggestive display, and it made Aziraphale jealously proud to have shared something privately with Crowley. The rest of the party went by in a blur. Aziraphale made some balloon animals, released some doves, led everyone in a Happy Birthday singalong. And then the show was over and the children went out to play, all hopped up on sugar and privilege.

Aziraphale packed up his box, put Harry back in his basket. The doves would find freedom in the English countryside, which wasn’t a bad place to be a bird. They were the kind that mated for life. Good for them, Aziraphale thought.

He saw Crowley supervising cleanup of the tables. Aziraphale glided along as subtly as he could, so as to pass the redhead at some point in his way back to his car. Blessedly, he managed to get Crowley without anyone else close by.

"Great stuff, Mr. Angel," Crowley said, teasing— but not in an unkind way.

"I’ve had better. But thank you for your enthusiasm. Truly," Aziraphale murmured.

"No, I really enjoyed it. Haven't seen a magic show this good since I was a kid myself." It surprised both of them, then, when Crowley's hand laid itself on his arm, just near the inside of his elbow. Crowley withdrew with a sharp breath. He seemed embarrassed, though it was hard to tell through the dark lenses. “Anyway. You’re quite the- the charismatic entertainer.”

“That’s very kind of you.” Aziraphale responded with a fleeting touch at the small of Crowley's back. He felt the redhead's spine stiffen, as if he had been waiting for the contact all this time. 

Crowley only nodded. "Heading off?" He did not look Aziraphale in the face. 

"Oh, I might linger." 

He meant this as an invitation. Luckily, Crowley took it as such. He leaned in tentatively, the sinuous length of his torso extending toward Aziraphale.

"I’ve still got to make sure these numbskulls bring out the next round of desserts, but if you’ll be so patient..."

"Yes?" breathed Aziraphale.  _ Hold it together, Fell. No reason for you to sound so wrecked already. _

Crowley lowered his head just slightly, like he meant to run the tip of his aquiline nose against Aziraphale’s cheek. "The Bentley. Wait for me."

Aziraphale gave him a speechless nod.

The pressure built steadily in Aziraphale’s middle as he made his way back to the parking lot and returned his gear to his car. Harry’s basket, he placed on top of the boot with the lid just slightly open so the little thing could breathe. He was asleep right now, rewarded by half a head of lettuce. Aziraphale could not be so relaxed. He returned to the Bentley, legs practically shaking. Oh, he did hope that Crowley wasn’t leading him on. Worse— what if he was disappointed? What if he changed his mind?

How awful would it be, anyway, if he never got to know Crowley a little better? Aziraphale was nearly fifty but he could still have a fling every now and again. Ultimately, however, he was a one-man show in life as well as his career. It wasn’t for him to live like a dove, mated for life to the perfect companion.

He hoped he didn’t look too anxious, or even too eager, when Crowley finally approached.

"Mr. Angel."

"It’s Mr. Fell, actually."

Crowley’s answering smirk was mischief incarnate. "And is there a first name to go with that?" He reached up, extended his index finger. Traced it along the moustache he had so carefully drawn above Aziraphale's upper lip. 

Aziraphale was certain that if he survived this, he would be driven completely mad in the process. "Aziraphale."

"Aziraphale," Crowley repeated, and the word slithered off his tongue as he stepped closer, crowding into Aziraphale’s space. Aziraphale could feel his breath hitch. "Tell me if I’ve misread you,  _ Aziraphale _ , but it seems that you’ve taken a liking to me." The finger stopped at the corner of his mouth. 

"More than a liking, really," said Aziraphale, taking a risk.

"Oh? As if your little stunt with the balloon was so subtle." Crowley removed his finger, instead tracing down the lapel of Aziraphale's worn black coat. 

Aziraphale’s lip curled. "You liked that?"

Crowley breathed out, making a sound like the beginning of a growl. "Liked it? It drove me crazy.  _ You _ drove me crazy the whole time, carrying on like you did. Looking the way you do." In a flash Crowley's slow, teasing movements turned sharp and aggressive. A hand grabbed Aziraphale's wrist, pressed his palm to his chest. Aziraphale could feel the sharp peak of a nipple underneath the crisp white suit. "So if you want to take me, then fucking  _ take _ me. Use your hands, your clever sneaky hands..." he dragged Aziraphale’s hand lower, over the wide strip of his cummerbund to the significant erection that strained against his tight trousers. Aziraphale gasped.

"Anything you want," he sighed, already helpless to the pleas of this beautiful, desperate man. "Any way you want it."

"Rough," Crowley said, voice ragged against Aziraphale’s ear. "If you can."

In answer, Aziraphale turned his head, pressing his nose against Crowley’s cheek. He smelled delicious, devourable. Crowley whimpered, and encouraged, Aziraphale pressed their bodies flush together. He reached up to wind his free wrist around Crowley’s tie, dragging him close so that their lips met clumsily. Aziraphale had been right— that bottom lip of his was soft, delectably so. He sucked it hard until Crowley’s throat leapt in a high-pitched whine.

"Inside," he gasped, when they came up for air. Aziraphale wasn’t sure what he meant, but Crowley twisted suddenly in his arms and shoved his key into the side of the Bentley, frantically unlocking it. Then he yanked the backseat door open and pulled Aziraphale in with him.

The door slammed shut at Aziraphale’s heels, and they scuffled about fitfully until Aziraphale was more or less seated, Crowley draped over his lap like a bride. The redhead was writhing in his arms now, all legs and torso and that perky ass grinding into Aziraphale’s thighs. When Aziraphale yanked on his tie again, it came loose— and it kept on unwinding.

"What the hell?" Said Crowley, watching a chain of colourful handkerchiefs stream out of his collar, somehow attached to the end of his tie. He looked back at Aziraphale with wide eyes.

"Just some nonsense," Aziraphale said with a grin.

"Bastard," gasped Crowley, but his hips jerked eagerly.

"Shh. Let me see you, you gorgeous thing." Aziraphale’s hands slid up Crowley’s chest, pushing past the crisp jacket. He could feel Crowley’s skin burning underneath his dress shirt. Aziraphale practically tore it open, the buttons snapping, until enough of Crowley’s chest was exposed. Never letting up for a moment, Aziraphale leaned in to suck a rich, purple bruise into the side of Crowley’s neck.

"Show me your eyes. I bet they’re beautiful as well," Aziraphale murmured, kissing all the way up Crowley’s neck. Charming, he had a tattoo— a little looping, red and black snake just next to his right ear. That deserved its own kiss, too.

"If you smash my glasses, so help me—" growled Crowley.

"Wouldn’t dream of it." Aziraphale eased the shades off Crowley’s nose gently, and with a flick of his wrist they vanished.

Crowley’s jaw went slack. "Where—?" He was stopped by Aziraphale’s finger over his lips.

"A magician never reveals his secrets." Aziraphale exhaled, gazing into Crowley’s eyes. "You really are one of a kind, aren’t you?"

Crowley blinked. His irises were golden, like warm honey. "You think so?"

"Why else would I be so enamoured of you?" Aziraphale pressed his face to Crowley’s chest, peppering it with kisses, nuzzling the lightly curling hairs across its surface. Crowley felt like a blessing— a gorgeous man dropped seemingly out of the sky and literally onto his lap, praising his most mediocre magic tricks and begging Aziraphale to handle him roughly. The urgency of their need meant there was no time to get undressed all the way. Aziraphale divested Crowley of the cummerbund, yanked his trousers open and took him in hand forcefully.

"Yes— yes, oh God, this is what I wanted," Crowley gasped, throwing his head back.

"My dear, I’ve hardly even started yet," Aziraphale placated. He stroked a thumb along the base of Crowley’s cock, testing, and was rewarded by Crowley’s keening cry. Encouraged, Aziraphale pushed his hand further between Crowley’s legs, getting a firm handful of his balls— not just for Crowley’s pleasure, but for his own. He wanted to get his hands on every part of this man that made him cry out in ecstasy. Already he was enjoying the sight of Crowley half-undressed, the black tie left wantonly loose around his neck, red lips parted and eyelashes fluttering. 

“You caught my breath the moment I saw you, but now...you’re such a sight,” sighed Aziraphale, steadily stroking Crowley with increasing speed, pleased with the way he was leaking between his fingers already. “The way you’re coming undone for me.”

“Faster,” groaned Crowley. 

“The way you’re begging for me!” 

“ _ Faster _ ,” whined Crowley, jerking his hips and fucking furiously into Aziraphale’s hand, and Aziraphale quickened his pace. Crowley reached up to grab him by his bow tie, pulling him close for a messy kiss that seared Aziraphale from head to toe.

“Hmm,” Crowley growled into the crook of Aziraphale’s neck. “What’s this?” He rolled his hips against the half-hard erection he could feel beneath him. Aziraphale blushed. 

“It’s your fault, little slut, little red-haired, white-suited slut,” he responded in an arousingly low voice. “Walking around dressed like that. I was helpless.” The fingers of his free hand dug into the back of Crowley’s head, twining into sweat-damp hair, tugging until Crowley’s white throat was exposed for Aziraphale to suck at. He grazed his teeth along the Adam’s apple, stopped when Crowley’s shoulders jerked in pain, contented himself with pressing Crowley’s chest to his mouth.

Crowley was a stuttering mess, his head slung back over the crook of Aziraphale’s elbow as he arched his chest, pushing a pert nipple into Aziraphale’s mouth, “Ahh...Aziraphale...Mr. Fell... _ Angel _ ,” he finally moaned, the name spilling from his lips like Aziraphale had wrenched it from his core, “Angel, Angel,  _ Angel _ !”

One last, long stroke and Crowley was caught off guard, moaning obscenely until he was breathless and his cock twitched in Aziraphale’s hand, painting streaks on the car window and ceiling. But even then Aziraphale didn’t let up. He went on pumping Crowley, gentler now, their foreheads pressed together as if Aziraphale was rocking Crowley to sleep.

“Enough,” panted Crowley, gripping the back of Aziraphale’s neck. “Enough."

"Did I do well for you?" Aziraphale murmured into Crowley's ear. 

Crowley drew a sharp, satisfied breath. "So goddamn well."

"Has anyone given you as good as I've given you?"

"No." A breathless chuckle. "No, I admit they have not."

Aziraphale smiled smugly. "Good."

Crowley stared up at him then, all big golden eyes. "I have to go." But his hand was still playing with the hairs on the back of Aziraphale's head, threading through the curls with long, gentle fingers. 

Aziraphale let him go, albeit reluctantly. Crowley sat upright and looked at himself. He wasn’t sure where to start— his shirt, his tie, his trousers. 

“Here.” Aziraphale suddenly produced a small packet of wipes as if from thin air. Crowley blushed and took one.

“Thanks.”

Somehow he managed to slither off Aziraphale’s lap and began to put himself back together. Aziraphale glanced between him and the door several times before gathering the courage to say, “I ought to go. Still need to find Mr. Dowling about my cheque.” He chuckled. 

“Ought to thank him as well,” Crowley said. “Otherwise we’d never have met.” The grin he flashed Aziraphale was sharp and satisfied.

Aziraphale reached into his jacket pocket and took out Crowley’s sunglasses. He handed them back to the redhead, who seemed surprised that today’s surprises still weren’t over. 

“I believe these are yours, Mr. Crowley. Is...there a first name to go with that?” Aziraphale ventured. 

Crowley put the sunglasses on. “Anthony.”

In the end they parted ways. Aziraphale slipped out of the Bentley first, Crowley followed sometime after— but they didn’t see each other again that day. Aziraphale drove back home with his rabbit and his tricks and his pay check, the image of Crowley in his arms wrecked and stuttering, the burn of his cock in Aziraphale’s hand, and hoped he would see him again. 

The next move was up to Crowley. For tucked into the windshield of his car was a single playing card- a King of Hearts, with Aziraphale’s number written on the back. Not his work phone, his home phone.

“Anthony,” Aziraphale repeated, all the way home, like  _ abracadabra _ or  _ alakazam _ . “Anthony, Anthony, Anthony.”

Yes, there was a chance that he would see Anthony, his Anthony, again. What kind of a magician would he be if he didn’t believe in magic?


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mr. Crowley’s fascination with the magical Mr. Fell continues, with surprising and inevitable results.

As a professional caterer, Anthony Crowley had amassed quite a collection of calling cards. But only one of them ever sent him into such a tailspin.

He had found it tucked securely behind one windshield-wiper, a single King of Hearts from a magical deck. Palm-sized, easily hidden in a sleeve, with rounded corners to protect the magician handling it. On the other side was a phone number written in black sharpie.

_Angel_ , he thought, before backspacing on the word and replacing it with _Mr. Fell._

He finds himself doing this again and again every time he looks at the card. He keeps it in his inside jacket pocket on his next two jobs, and every spare moment of thought goes to contemplating whether he should call.

_Maybe Mr. Fell— Aziraphale— doesn’t really mean it._

_Maybe you’ve waited too long, and now it’s going to be weird._

_Maybe he’s forgotten all about you. Maybe every head waiter who’s had the luck to be working at the same event as Mr. Fell has a card just like this one._

On the nights when Crowley isn’t so tired that he blacks out the moment he hits the bed, he slides underneath the covers, remembers how the magician pulled a string of handkerchiefs from his collar. Remembers his strong, steady, careful clutch, his mouth on his chest. Crowley touches himself and whines at the memory, willing his own hand to be Aziraphale’s hand— but no, it is nowhere near as soft and skilled, and Crowley, frustrated, pumps himself to a weak and grudging climax then lies in his own spend. When Aziraphale did this to him, Crowley came all over the Bentley ceiling. If you looked closely the stripes were still there.

He makes himself wait for the next morning- normal business hours- to call Aziraphale. It’s his personal number, so Crowley is greeted with a sing-song “Hullo!”

Crowley clears his throat. “Hey, Angel.”

He hears a sharp intake of breath. “Crowley! I- I’m so glad that you called.”

“Yeah. Sorry it took me a while.”

“Busy, I presume?”

“Mmhmm. Late nights.”

“Oh, you poor thing.”

Here, Crowley’s heart clenches.

They talk for over an hour about various odds and ends— the weather, work, their plans for the week. They don’t mention the sex, but Crowley is grateful for any scrap of attention he receives from Aziraphale. The next day, it’s Aziraphale who calls while Crowley is on his way to work. Crowley puts him on speaker, so it’s like he’s sitting right next to him in the passenger seat. It’s close enough.

He is grateful for their conversations over the next couple of weeks. Aziraphale calls nearly every day, or Crowley calls him. His friends still joke about setting him up, but Crowley only smiles and says nothing. Aziraphale is a precious secret to him, a card hidden in his sleeve.

Crowley finds himself in Piccadilly one Saturday afternoon, catering a fiftieth birthday party luncheon. His own fiftieth was last year, and all he got was a day off, a case of beer and far too many enthusiastic calls from far too many people. He’s never understood the deal with milestone birthdays, and he tells Aziraphale so over text.

**A: Well think of it this way. Without big birthdays, there wouldn’t be big events for you to cater at!**

**C: Huh, guess so.**

**C: At least this’ll all be over by four and I can have an early night for once**

**A: where’s this party at**

**C: Piccadilly**

**A: oh that’s so close to where I live! In soho.**

**A.: come by and say hi?**

**A: ☺️**

Oh.

Crowley clears his throat. Only a few more minutes until his break ends. He taps out a hasty response.

**C: I’ll see. Send me ur address.**

By the time the party ends and Crowley’s crew has done packing up, the address to the Amazing Mr. AZ Fell’s apartment is waiting in his phone, and Crowley gathers himself as best he can, coiffs his hair to its best form, and hits the gas.

* * *

Aziraphale lives on a ground-level flat in the middle of Soho, and upon entry Crowley feels as if he’s been given VIP privilege of some sort; like he’ll look a few degrees to his right and see something that reveals one of his host’s magical secrets.

Aziraphale himself is...well, Aziraphale, gentlemanly and genuinely glad to see Crowley, instantly fixing him up on the antique sofa with a cup of tea and striding into sparkling conversation, as if he and Crowley haven’t been talking the whole week. And all Crowley can do is gaze at him— this angel who descended from the heavens one day, struggled to draw a moustache on himself, and then repaid Crowley for doing it for him by giving him a taste of pleasure unlike anything he’d ever known before.

Their banter slides into something like flirtation. Crowley vaguely wonders if mentalism is one of the Amazing Mr. Fell’s skills, he feels so taken with him; his wide vocabulary and animated expressions, his tinkling laugh and the way he wiggles. And then they laugh loudly about a story Aziraphale tells from one party where the host’s wife fell headlong into the pool and Aziraphale magicked her a towel, and suddenly Crowley’s hand lands on Aziraphale’s thigh- rather high up his thigh.

“Oh,” exclaims the blond, suddenly noticing. He goes red, but tries to laugh it off awkwardly.

“ _Oh_ ,” Crowley says too, flustered. He withdraws his hand. “I didn’t mean—“

“It’s all right—“

“Sorry—“

“My dear, don’t worry about it.”

_My dear._

Aziraphale wets his lips, seems to gather his courage, and reaches for Crowley’s hand. He places it back where it was, up near his hip, fingertips sliding toward the inside. This is a dirty sort of magic tricks, Crowley thinks, his mind racing, but he doesn’t stop Aziraphale or pull away.

“In fact I was rather wondering,” Aziraphale continues, almost breathless, “if you would see fit to do this again, today.”

"I didn’t want to come here and look like I- like I was just thinking of a quick fuck," Crowley says, his breath hitching on the last syllable. "The truth is that I think about you a lot and I— it sounds ridiculous but—"

"Oh," Aziraphale says, and his eyes are so bright. He looks so expectant and so endearing that Crowley’s heart squishes in a way he never thought it could. Aziraphale clasps and unclasps his hands together. "I’m so glad that you came anyway. And if...if a quick fuck was all you were thinking about after all," he chuckles, "then I’ll take what I can get, won’t I?"

Crowley wants, with the quiet desperation of one trying to catch a train as it leaves the station, to tell Aziraphale that that’s not all he’s here for; that he wants to give Aziraphale as good as he got in the back of the Bentley on that sunny day they first met; that he wants to see Aziraphale again and again and again if it only proves that he will never stop being part of Crowley’s life; that he wants a chance to be something, anything to Aziraphale. But there isn’t a moment to even start to verbalise all this— Aziraphale takes the chance away from him, and gives him something in return.

He presses closer, and he smells of old books, of tea leaves, of something distinct and dusty that can only be described as magic. "Let’s talk about our feelings later, yes?"

_Our feelings._ Our _feelings._ Aziraphale has feelings, Crowley realises, possibly the same feelings— and then he loses the ability to realise anything at all as he’s kissed, soundly and thoroughly, by a pair of plump and familiar lips.

He kisses back. The taste nurtures him, stokes the fire in his belly.

"We’re doing this, then."

"I rather hoped we would." Aziraphale pulls away and Crowley catches a cheeky grin on his face. He reaches behind Crowley’s ear. "What’s this?"

Crowley stares at the condom packet in Aziraphale’s hand. "What the fuck?"

"Magic," Aziraphale says, quirking his eyebrows playfully. "Whoops— something here, too!" He reaches for Crowley’s other ear and comes back with a small bottle of lube.

Now Crowley scowls. "There’s no way that fit in my ear. It was in your hand."

"Hush." Aziraphale presses the bottle to Crowley’s chest, a teasing smile on his face. "Get slicking."

This. Fucking. _Bastard_.

Aziraphale gives him a single light shove and Crowley falls backward into the couch. He’s treated to the wide moon of Aziraphale’s arse as the blond undoes his suspenders, shimmies out of his trousers. Crowley does the same, although it’s a significantly tighter squeeze for him, and he manages to get the condom on despite how much his head is swimming. But Aziraphale is patient, and he mewls when he feels Crowley’s cool, slippery fingers working inside of him, gently, gently. Fingers that must lay down silverware and uncork bottles and fold cloth napkins into swan shapes. There is a cleverness to them when they prep him open, Crowley’s free hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder guiding him lower and lower. It tugs on the bow tie, pulling loose. And then Aziraphale feels the head of Crowley’s cock against his entrance, as he knew it in the grip of his own hand the first time they met, and he gasps.

"Shh. This is what you wanted, yes?" Crowley whispers in his ear.

"Yes," whimpers Aziraphale. And he eases down, slowly, until his back presses against Crowley’s chest. They sigh in unison.

"You feel so good," Crowley groans in his ear. "So tight. God...look at you...gorgeous..." His hands run down Aziraphale’s thighs, squeezing hard. There will be thumbprints on the smooth skin later, little bruising marks like leopard spots. The weight of him bears down all of Crowley’s front and he buries his nose in Aziraphale’s neck, chasing that faint magic scent. He enjoys the way Aziraphale’s back arches when Crowley rolls his hips, thrusting deep into him. He goes fully erect inside of Aziraphale, his cock stiffening just against the sensitive spot that makes his lover, his angel, groan loudly and toss his head back.“Oh God. Oh, Anthony, darling.” He moves one of Crowley’s hands down over his own growing erection.

Crowley wraps his fingers around it, gives it a slow tug. Aziraphale makes a long, low sound in his throat. He reaches up to touch Crowley’s face and digs his heels into the floor to grind down on him. "Yes, darling, _yes_."

Crowley whines in response. "Shirt. Let me feel you. Didn’t get a chance last time." His free hand is reaching up again, scrabbling against half-undone buttons. Aziraphale unbuttons all the way and brings Crowley’s hand to his chest, sinking his fingers into blond hair and soft flesh. Crowley growls in his throat and his hips jerk in earnest, steady, working up a solid pace, Aziraphale grinding back down to meet his every stroke. His thighs are trembling as they rock up and down over Crowley, who is doing his best to maintain their pace and make this last for them, make it good for Aziraphale, when all he wants is to rut spasmodically against him until he’s had his fill. _No. Slow, Anthony. Take your time. When are you going to have this again?_

"Dear...oh, my dear..." Aziraphale turns his head so at least Crowley’s face presses next to his, at least he can nuzzle into that blessed profile and sharp cheekbones, "I’m close— I’m getting—"

In answer, Crowley’s thrusts become slow and long and deep, lingering in the spot that makes Aziraphale moan before rolling his hips and pushing back in again. He’s close, too, but he can’t say anything between gritted teeth and handfuls of Aziraphale’s flesh. Sweat and slick and short, stuttering breaths; red heat and muscle and firmness and tightness and oh God, yes, Aziraphale spills in Crowley’s fist, a steady leak like he’s sobbing, and Aziraphale is crying too, just a little, with the exquisite pain and the full feeling in his chest and his arse- whatever magic he truly believes in, it is working. He feels Crowley tire beneath him despite his best efforts and Aziraphale grounds his heels and pushes back against his lover so his cock goes deep again, and then he can feel it jerk inside of him, _delightful, yes, let go sweetheart,_ and Crowley comes with a cry in Aziraphale’s ear. His clutch tightens, anchoring him else he be borne away on pleasure, coming and coming and coming inside of him until his own lap is sticky wet. Then he slumps down on Aziraphale’s shoulder.

It is hard to let go of Aziraphale. There is a perfectness to the way he fills Crowley’s arms. Aziraphale, too, seems unwilling to be let go of. He still wants Crowley’s hands on him, his skin against his skin, and that’s how mere moments later they are standing together in the shower, getting cleaned up although Aziraphale takes comfort in the fact that olive-essenced soap and running water cannot wash away the bruises Crowley has left on his thighs.

Crowley feels a little shy to be standing like this, buck naked, in such close confines with Aziraphale all wet and slick before him. They’ve never actually been fully naked with each other before. It comes as no surprise to either of them when they go for a second round in the steamy warmth of the shower. Crowley finds himself in awe of Aziraphale’s cock— thick and blunt and strong, but also pert and pretty in its own way, nestled amongst dark blond hairs between the softest thighs Crowley has ever seen in his life. It only just fits in his mouth, stretching his lips and curving over his tongue. He remembers the way Aziraphale held him the first time, in the backseat of his car, burying his face in his chest and rubbing his prick with such...such diligence, Crowley realises, even when he’s gagging on Aziraphale’s length to a waterlogged groan of “ _Anthony_!”. How Aziraphale had lavished that attention on someone he had just met, never letting up until he was sure Crowley was sated. Crowley is determined to give all that, and more, back to him.

Aziraphale spurts into his mouth, head thrown back against the cool tile of the wall. He is comforted by Crowley pressing his nose into the soft flesh of his underbelly, “I’ve got you, dove.”

(Dove, if only. They mated for life, Aziraphale remembers, and he thinks he should like that, and should like to be nestled in a secret pocket at Crowley’s breast where he himself has hidden countless doves over the years for his magic tricks.)

When they are done there is more cleaning up to do; there is Crowley washing the taste out of his mouth under the shower, making Aziraphale giggle; there is gentle scrubbing and rinsing, and Crowley gets the exquisite privilege of sinking his fingers up to the knuckle in Aziraphale’s wet, yellow hair, working through tangles as they kiss, slow and deep, under the spray of water.

Afternoon sun finds them nestled together again, in fluffy robes, damp skin against damp skin. So much intimacy for one afternoon and less than a fortnight of having known each other, yet Aziraphale relishes the weight of Crowley’s slight body over his. He marvels at how their legs tangle and how Crowley already knows to tuck his fingers in the folds of his flesh, gently possessive.

“What I meant to say is,” he says softly, and Aziraphale laughs, “all the sex aside, I want to be something more. I want you around, a lot. I dunno. I just like you.”

Of all the idiotic drunken college-dorm confessions—

Aziraphale kisses his cheek. “I like you, too.” He is blushing like a field tomato.

“Ngk,” says Crowley. His brain should not be working anymore, but he gets a sudden idea.

“Hey,” he says softly. “I’ve got a wedding next weekend. Not work,” he adds. “Friend’s getting married. M’ invited. A guest. I...” he scrambles for the words, but Azirpahale watches him patiently, “I don’t have a date yet, so I just thought, just now, if you wanted, we could. I could. You. Eh?”

Aziraphale’s eyes grow round and bright. “I should like that very much.”

* * *

Per the standard etiquette expected of any wedding guest, Crowley does not wear white this time. He wears, instead, a sleek all-black paisley suit, and at first sight of him Aziraphale nearly keels over on the steps of his apartment building. Aziraphale himself wears a pearl-grey suit and a salmon-pink bow tie.

“I nearly forgot,” he says nervously, when the door to the Bentley shuts at his side. “What are we going to tell your friends?” Crowley stares at him blankly through his sunglasses. “About me,” he adds.

The corners of Crowley’s mouth pull down nonchalantly. “What do you think about ‘boyfriend’?”

Aziraphale’s breath catches, despite himself. He feels like a teenager again.

“I think that sounds about right,” he says, with a smile.

Crowley grins back, and then, only then, does he start the engine.


End file.
